


Ever Since We Met

by damnslippyplanet



Series: Songs of Innocence [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Basically The Show, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Non-Con Drugging For Questionable Therapeutic Purposes, Hannibal has no chill, Hannibal is Hannibal, No One Helps Will Graham, Season/Series 01, you know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-21
Updated: 2016-07-21
Packaged: 2018-07-25 18:21:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7543135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/damnslippyplanet/pseuds/damnslippyplanet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>For a naked fraction of a moment, if there were someone to whom Hannibal confessed such things, he might confess that Will is not quite like any other sacrificial lamb. He does not remember ever being so moved by any of the others’ drugged trust. He does not remember ever experiencing a brief blinding wish for that same trust to be given freely.</i>
</p>
<p>Or: Season one vignette in which Hannibal is creepy and no one helps Will Graham. We're canon-compliant here, is what I'm saying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ever Since We Met

**Author's Note:**

> I posted this [on Tumblr months ago](http://damnslippyplanet.tumblr.com/post/142045851536/heyyy-so-hannigramandromancek-wanted-a-song) but I think it somehow never migrated over here? ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> Here it is, anyway, months after the fact, in response to a prompt from everybreathagift for something inspired by the Panic! At the Disco song "Nearly Witches (Ever Since We Met)." Contains canon-typical non-con drugging for faux-therapeutic purposes.
> 
> I still promise there will be actual non-creepy-angsty stuff in this series at some point. I have nicer prompts!

> E _ver since we met_  
>  _I only shoot up with your perfume_  
>  _It’s the only thing_  
>  _That makes me feel as good as you do_

* * *

Hannibal checks the syringe carefully for air bubbles, much as he’ll check that Will is seated comfortably once he goes under, much as he’ll make sure Will’s seizure only goes as far as Hannibal wants it to go.

It’s the same precise and almost-tender care with which he threaded Will’s lures with human remains, courted his dogs with delicacies, and is dismantling his life to be replaced with a new one of Hannibal’s devising. He derives much the same pleasure from it that he does from feeding Will, from driving Will to a crime scene so that he can sleep in the car, or from architecting murders with the intent of reaching into Will’s subconscious and twisting hard at the delicate ligaments of his frayed sanity.

None of this strikes him as contradictory. His urge to take care of Will is all of a piece with his desire to unravel Will’s veins and make lacework of them, and he does not expect that any of it will keep him from springing the jaws of the trap he’s weaving around Will when the time comes.

Will is not his first sacrificial lamb, although he is admittedly the most interesting.

And so: he checks for air bubbles, and double checks the dosages, so that Will’s safety and comfort will be ensured, until they’re no longer a consideration.

It’s a slightly heavier mixture of drugs than the first time. He thinks he may be able to do this a few more times; Will is so covered in scratches from his nighttime wandering and from the way he claws at his own skin in nightmares that a few pinprick puncture wounds may go unnoticed. But not more than a few. This is a pleasure and a technique Hannibal cannot afford himself often.

He does not let himself think about the wild urge he had, the first time, to fill the syringe with his own blood and inject it in lieu of the drugs. To have some part of himself circulating in Will’s bloodstream. A fanciful notion that exposure to whatever monstrosities lie within Hannibal’s cells might speed Will’s own changing.

(He knows his blood is not abnormal in any way. He’d half expected it might be the first time he saw it under a microscope, but found himself to his own surprise utterly, banally human in this regard. Nonetheless he wondered if his blood mingled with Will’s might not perform some alchemy. He does not let himself wonder again which of them would turn, and into what.)

He does not let himself think about how long the list is growing, of things it feels unsafe to think about in Will Graham’s presence.

He does not let himself consider when he last felt unsafe, before Will.

He turns back to find Will exactly as he was left in his chair. Eyes wide and already hazy with the first of the drugs slipped into the glass of wine Hannibal offered him, sleeve willingly folded up, arm resting bare and upturned on the arm of his chair.

For a naked fraction of a moment, if there were someone to whom Hannibal confessed such things, he might confess that Will is not _quite_ like any other sacrificial lamb. He does not remember ever being so moved by any of the others’ drugged trust. He does not remember ever experiencing a brief blinding wish for that same trust to be given freely.

Just a moment, and then he clears his mind and kneels by Will’s chair, checking his pulse and his pupils. He asks, “How are you feeling, Will?”

Will blinks in slow motion, parts his lips and works his throat silently as if he’s trying to remember speech. Hannibal supposes the others must have done the same; he supposes he’ll forget this sight as he’s forgotten the others, once Will Graham is safely behind bars as the Chesapeake Ripper.

He leans in to hear Will say, “ ‘m okay. A little warm.” Will’s breath where Hannibal leans close is fever-sweet and wine-heavy.

Hannibal thinks he says, “Good. Hold still for me, now, just for a minute.” It may not be English; on the extraordinarily rare occasions that Hannibal Lecter feels this particular sort of aching tenderness, it comes to him first in his mother tongue. It doesn’t matter; Will won’t remember this. Hannibal could tell him the whole terrible intricate plan and he’d forget.

He wipes Will’s skin clean and finds the spot where his life flows just beneath his skin and he punctures the skin and the vein carefully: not to hurt, not to bruise. Perhaps this is common sense, to leave no trace. Perhaps it is a gentleness all the more unnerving for being unnecessary. He watches the fluid level in the syringe drop, slowly and steadily, and his hands do not tremble even when Will’s breath does.

He feeds Will’s unresisting body every drop of the carefully chosen and measured mixture, removes the needle, presses gauze over Will’s skin to stop any bleeding. Thinks about the single bead of blood in the crook of Will’s arm, even as he wipes it away. He holds the pressure with one hand, reaches for Will’s wrist with the other and checks his pulse.

Slower; good. Will’s eyelids slide closed, drag heavily open again, as if he’s fighting himself to stay awake. He sinks slightly in the chair; sighs, flexes the fingers of one hand and then is still.

Hannibal stands up, brushing off the knees of his pants, and goes to dispose of the needle and put the rest of his kit away. It will take a few minutes. He returns with the light and the metronome and arrays his tools carefully. He leans in close again to check Will’s pulse, his pupils. He inhales deeply.

Will’s scent changes, ever so slightly, as he sinks further into his own depths. There’s the wine and the fever and now something just slightly sick-sour. It bothers Hannibal in a way it’s never bothered him before, with the others. Something about the way it mingles with the distinct sweetness of Will’s illness.

If circumstances permitted, he considers, he would play with the blend. Try to find a combination that would enhance or at least not detract from Will’s own scent, while still leaving him sedated and suggestible.

To the list of “things not to think about,” he adds the fact that he _likes_ the sugar-and-ashes scent of Will’s brain burning itself up from within. Illnesses generally smell offputting or perhaps strange-but-interesting but he can’t remember ever before thinking that one smelled good. He has wondered, idly, whether he might be able to recreate it in a custom-blended scent.

“Will?” he asks, as much to distract himself from his own thoughts as to gauge Will’s state.

“Doctor Lecter.” The words are slow, slurred, spilling into the air between them so thick and heavy that Hannibal almost imagines he can see them. “Do you see that?” His arm twitches as if he means to point but finds his limbs too heavy, but Hannibal follows the line of Will’s gaze to the corner. Nothing there, of course.

He would very much like to spend this time peeling back a few layers of Will’s mind, to find out what he sees and what it means. *World enough and time*, he thinks with something as close to regret as he knows how to get, and says only, “Ignore it, please. I need you to focus on me now. Listen to my voice, and in a minute, you’ll hear clicking and I need you to listen to that, too. Can you do that?”

He reaches for the metronome and waits for Will’s eyes to make their slow, confused way to him. He’s noticed that Will’s aversion to eye contact goes away, like this, and he catches and holds Will’s gaze. Turns on the metronome; reaches for the light.

He finds himself, without intending to, reaching out to take Will’s hand as he says, “Let’s begin.” Moves a thumb lightly over Will’s palm as he proceeds to probe for the fault lines in his mind; the places he’ll sink in the hooks. He wants Will comfortable; wants him near.

Hannibal doesn’t want any of this to hurt, until it has to.


End file.
